


Raw Nerve

by firefright, Skalidra



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Intersex, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Revenge, proceed at your own risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-03-16 16:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13639803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firefright/pseuds/firefright, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Jason's been undercover with Black Mask for a while now, and in more ways than one. He's always been careful to keep his status as an omega a secret from anyone he doesn't utterly trust, like certain sadistic, murderous crime lords that have a habit of being blatantly sexist. Unfortunately, one mistake is all that has to happen and everything could come tumbling down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are with another something terrible! This one is just pure filth and terribleness, which means that we had some real fun with it, but also that unless you are actively looking for that, we don't recommend reading it. XD Roman is a sincerely unpleasant person, fair warning. If you'd like specific warnings, they're in the end note. Otherwise, enjoy!
> 
> [Skalidra's Tumblr.](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Firefright's Tumblr.](https://firefrightfic.tumblr.com/)

When Jason wakes up with a fever, feeling just flushed enough to be uncomfortable, he grits his teeth and shoves the feeling away. A shower doesn't make it any better; the heat stays in his cheeks and toweling off reveals to him that his skin is more sensitive than it should be too. That gets him to mutter a couple curses under his breath, as he debates trying to find a thermometer to actually take his temperature and figure out if he really should be doing anything. If he's really coming down with something…

But then he thinks of the sneering tone and dismissive look he'll undoubtedly get from Black Mask for being 'weak' enough to succumb to a sickness like anyone else, and spite more than anything else straightens him up and makes him determined to push through the feeling. He is _not_ giving that arrogant bastard any reason to think he's not up to the task; he's worked too fucking hard to get into this position to lose it now.

The fake alpha scent smells more rank to him than usual, but he holds his breath as he applies it on top of each scent gland and then tries not to breathe too deeply as it settles into his skin. Better the discomfort than to reveal to anyone that he's not what he's pretending to be. Roman is a sexist, asshole pig and Jason's got absolutely no faith that he'd continue to hold any position of power if the son of a bitch knew that he wasn't an alpha like he's said. He's listened to too many derogatory and sometimes crude comments to think anything else. He doesn't make a habit of letting anyone know his designation in general, but Roman especially? Fuck no.

His clothing grates against his skin more than usual too as he dresses up in his gear, shaking off the urge to just curl back up in his bed and pull the covers in tight. He has work to do; some stupid sickness is not going to lay him out in the middle of a minefield of an operation like this. He won’t let it. He’s fought through being sick before, he’ll do it again.

He’s so focused on making sure that his gear is all on correctly, and on ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of it all, that the ring of his phone catches him by surprise. He jerks over to it, not registering till he’s grabbed it that the tone it’s playing is an alarm, not a call. The reminder to take his suppressants; no indication of that specifically but it’s the only alarm he has apart from the one that wakes him up. He turns it off and digs into his pack, finding the hidden pocket sewn in along one corner and reaching in to pick out the ziplock bag within. Still unmarked, and no indication of what the pills are, he made sure. Filed the brand name off each one and everything.

(He thinks he’s entitled to a little paranoia.)

The pill’s small enough to swallow dry, and once it’s done and they’re hidden away again he gets back to suiting up. He checks to make sure he has everything twice over, leaving his helmet on the bed because the idea of putting it on just sounds miserable, and heads out.

Luckily, Roman’s office isn’t far. An elevator ride up and he’s pushing through the double doors, ignoring the guards and the sound of the door shutting behind him as he strides up to where Roman’s got breakfast laid out across the ostentatiously large table in front of the window. What an arrogant prick.

This time, the seat just one down from Roman is the one with the plate and everything in front of it, and Jason has to force himself not to show how almost immediately uncomfortable that makes him. Usually he has the whole table as buffer between Roman and him, and one measly empty chair between them suddenly doesn’t sound like enough. Not that he has any choice. Roman looks up only once he’s dragging the chair out to sit in his assigned place, and Jason can see the flashed curl of his mouth through the open zipper.

“Jason; good morning.”

It’s wine in the glasses in front of them; Jason quietly resigns himself to drinking maybe half of it. All, if Roman feels like being a controlling dick. “Morning,” he greets, pulling the chair in against the table. “What’s with the seating change? Miss me that much?”

Roman’s smile doesn’t flicker. “Maybe I just wanted to see you a little more closely. Sleep well?”

It’s pointless, stupid small talk. But the words cover up the moment that Roman’s scent hits him and stops him from wrinkling his nose in reaction, so that’s something. “Fine.” Christ, the man _stinks_. Somehow it always manages to surprise him how invasive that scent is, how it gets up in his nose, and— “We got any plans today?”

“We might.” Roman takes a drink from his glass, leans back in his chair and continues to watch him. “Why don’t you eat your breakfast and then we can talk about it? Hate to mix business and pleasure.”

Like the man does anything else.

Jason hides his contempt behind a snort and a crooked smirk and turns his attention to the food. All dressed up, but at the base of it it’s just sausages, eggs, an omelette… nothing all too daring, thankfully. He can feel a twist in his stomach, not quite like nausea but getting there, and has to push it aside before he starts to eat.

It doesn’t subside, but it doesn’t really get any worse. And it still doesn’t feel quite like nausea. It’s a twist, sure, but he doesn’t actually feel in danger of throwing up. Well, he’ll take his blessings where he can get them. If he’s sick, he’s going to hope it’s just a fever and he can skip the whole can’t-keep-food-down parts of it for once. He hopes the heat he’s starting to feel more prominently under his skin isn’t visible; that Roman can’t see the flush to his cheeks and forehead, or… Fuck, is he starting to _sweat?_ God _damnit_.

“Good?” Roman asks, a moment after he’s swallowed the last bite of the omelette.

Jason wipes his mouth with the napkin — manners drilled into him by Alfred that he usually does his best to forget — before looking up. “Always is,” he answers, honestly but unhelpfully. If Roman’s looking for him to praise the meal or thank him for it, he can forget it.

He can see the quirk of lips, and something keeps him watching as Roman spears a slice of the sausage on his own plate and brings it up. It slips between his near lack of lips, teeth flashing white as they scrape down the tines of the fork, a tongue slipping out for a brief moment.

That thing in his stomach twists again.

Jason barely resists shaking his head as heat washes up his spine, his breath catching as he shifts in his seat and braces one hand against the edge of the table. The shifting brings his attentions to a _dampness_ between his thighs that it takes a second for him to realize can’t be marked down to sweat. It feels…

No. No _fucking_ way.

He takes a hard breath, feeling his shoulders curve and his head dip as the heat — _heat_ — makes his free hand tremble, sweat sliding down his skin under the layers of his armor. He has to get the fuck out of here. He doesn’t know how the hell it’s started, or why, but these are the starting symptoms of _heat_ and he’s been a blind fucking idiot not to see it.

He _cannot_ be stuck in a room with Roman Sionis as he goes into heat. He’s pretty sure his fake scent has covered everything so far, but all it will take is one good whiff to betray him and that blows this whole thing. Not to mention what Roman will do to him, both for the deception and because of the circumstances. Roman is _not_ a gentleman in any way but pretend, and with the comments Jason’s heard from him… He doesn’t want to be anywhere near him when this really hits.

His chair scrapes as he pushes it away from the table, using his braced hand to force his muscles to cooperate and get him on his feet. The door’s only a couple dozen feet away. He can do this. He can make it.

“Something the matter?” Roman asks. “You look a little flushed, Jason.”

"I— I have to go," Jason manages to stammer out, swallowing thickly and pulling away from the table. He makes himself let go of the edge of it, trying and mostly failing to ignore how movement pulls his pants tight in some suddenly sensitive areas. "I'm not feeling well."

He makes it two steps in the direction of the door before Roman comments, idly, "That time of the cycle, is it?"

Jason feels himself go rigid, and for just a second the wash of alarm is enough to cancel out the fever building in his skin. He looks back over his shoulder, and somehow gets out a fairly steady, "Excuse me?"

Roman straightens up from the table slowly, like he has all the time in the world. "I hear that the first heat after long time suppressant use is a real sucker punch of a thing. Much more intense than a regular cycle's, and with a much quicker onset. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Jason?"

Jason's eyes go wide with horrified realisation. He could have denied it, maybe, if he wasn't too stunned by the question to be able to lie adequately, or even hide his surprise. "You… you know? How do you… how…”

"I have my means." Roman adjusts his suit jacket, fiddling with one of the buttons until it's sitting just _so_ before stepping out from behind the long table and walking towards him.

His pace is slow, unhurried. Jason is forced to turn around to face him, walking backwards this time towards the door. He can't take his eyes off Roman, not for an instant. It's too risky. But in no time at all he feels the door press in against his back.

 _Gun_. He has a gun. He needs to—

Jason fumbles with the safety strap over the holster, but still the pace of Roman's footsteps doesn't change. His head, the entire room, is starting to spin. Then he smells it, even stronger than before. A scent; heavy, cutting, _alpha_.

"I don't think we're going to need that today. Do you?" Roman smirks at him through the mask as he reaches his hand over, placing it across Jason's and on top of the gun.

Jason blinks down at it, staring as those gloved fingers wrap around his wrist, as they pull it away from his weapon. "No," he says, and he doesn't know whether it's protest or an agreement. "Roman—"

"You've been _lying_ to me, Jason." Roman reaches forward with his free hand to the buckle of Jason's belt, and this time Jason knows the sound he makes is protesting, if maybe faint. "Letting me think you were some sarcastic, defensive alpha looking to get put in his place. Always felt like you needed a good fuck to shut that mouth of yours up; guess now I know why."

The belt comes open, and Jason barely has time to grab at Roman's hand and gasp a sharp, " _No_ ," before it's shoving down into his pants. His back arches off the door as two gloved fingers push into him and hook up _hard_ , lifting him onto the balls of his feet in reaction as the base of Roman's hand grinds against his cock.

"Like a puppet on fucking strings." Those fingers pull, and Jason can't quite bite back his whine as he pushes up onto his toes to avoid the pressure. "Rest of you smells like shit, but I bet your cunt's sweet, isn't it, baby?"

"F-fuck… _stop_." He tries to cry out, but isn't sure if he actually manages the words or not. Maybe he just whimpers, because he's not quite there yet. Not quite wet enough that the hard unforgiving press of Roman's fingers doesn't hurt. He squirms to try and get away from them, but that only makes it worse.

"Yeah. Sweet, tight little cunt." Roman purrs, drawing his fingers out and then stabbing them back in, twisting his hand so the curve of the digits forces Jason open wider. His feet, even in heavy boots, slide across the polished floor. "Need an alpha's cock, don't you? That's what you've been missing." Up this close, Roman's breath stinks. "Playing games while waiting for a real alpha to come shut you up."

Jason almost sobs. Against his admittedly weakening will, he's getting wetter. His hand, the one Roman isn't holding, grips the front of the alpha's jacket. "N… no…”

"Shh, it's okay, baby. I'll give you what you need. But first we're going to get you cleaned up. Daddy isn't going to fuck you while you smell like alpha piss."

He can't even begin to process what Roman means by that. Not with what his fingers are doing. Tears sting the corners of Jason's eyes as Roman shoves a third inside him. It hurts, but his body clings to them as well, instinct guiding him to try and bear down.

This can't be happening to him. It _can't_.

He’s been on suppressants for years. He’s been so, so careful about the fake scent, making sure he reapplies long before he’s in danger of it fading and making sure his own scent never gets powerful enough to overwhelm the rest. He’d been worried when he’d woken half undressed and in an unfamiliar bed, but his pants had still been on and Roman hadn’t treated him any differently so he’d thought he was clear. He’d thought—

Roman’s fingers pull out of him in a sudden rush, leaving him clenching down around air as the hand withdraws. His gaze drops down, passing Roman’s masked face and the knot of his tie before it finds the gloved hand that’s rising up. He has just a fraction of a second to inhale, to try and _think_ now that those fingers aren’t twisting him open, before they shove into his mouth. His head smacks back against the door, the heel of Roman’s hand pressing up underneath his chin and keeping him pinned back against the wood, fingers loosely caught between the press of his teeth.

His tongue is pinned to the bottom of his mouth by the press of them, the dual taste of leather and his own slick heavy on his tongue. Despite everything else, that taste — he has a _thing_ , god _damnit_ — flares the fever in the pit of his stomach a little hotter.

“Sweet, isn’t it, baby?” Roman says, fingers rubbing against his tongue. Jason shudders. “That’s what you are; sweet little barely used cunt.”

He can’t— God, he can barely think past that taste, and the _feeling_.

“That’s right, isn’t it? Too much of an uptight bitch to let yourself get fucked like you’re meant for; bet you’ve only spread for a couple people.”

Roman pulls hard at his jaw, jerking his head down and forward and stepping back to make him stagger forward a step. Jason grunts a protest, teeth closing a little harder against the fingers in his mouth as Roman moves around him, twisting his arm back with the captive wrist and pressing it into the small of his back. His back arches at the hard press, head pulled back sharply to Roman’s shoulder and the hot splay of breath rushing out against the side of his throat.

“Come on, Jason. Let’s get that filth washed off you.”

Roman pushes him forward, nearly stepping on his heels to drive him across the room and to a door on the other side. It’s not fully closed, and opens when he’s pushed against it, into a bedroom he’s never been in before. He’s jerked to the side, staggering as Roman lets go of his wrist and jaw and shoves him further in. He hits a wall, but before he can get himself together Roman’s hand — still wet against his skin — grabs the back of his neck and something in him goes tight and loose all at once at the bruising pressure. The reaction lasts long enough for Roman to drag him to another door left ajar; white tile and darker walls, and an open shower he’s pressed up against the wall of.

Jason takes a breath in, comes back to himself enough to press his hands to the wall and turn around as the grip on his neck disappears. Then cold water hits him square in the face and he yelps, jerking away and down into a corner. It follows him; he turns his head away and it sprays across his neck instead.

“You deserve this, baby,” Roman says, over the sound of the water. “Strip the clothes off and I’ll make it warmer; gotta get that shit off your skin, remember?”

The water is making his head clear just a little bit; the chill of it seeping down into his skin. “No, I— Roman, _stop_. I don’t want—”

“I know exactly what you want, sweet thing. But first we’ve gotta deal with you being a lying little _cunt_.” Roman takes a step closer, and Jason’s head _snaps_ up at the distinctive click of a gun’s safety being flicked off. Roman’s holding a gun, _his_ gun, in his free hand, aimed down at him along with the handheld showerhead. “Take your _goddamn_ clothes off, baby, or I start playing rough.”

When the hell did that come off his thigh?

“Roman, no. Please—” he’d never plead like this normally, but heat does funny things to the head. Especially when combined with fear.

Roman pays him no heed. One step closer, and the cold temperature of the water is almost unbearable as the barrel of the gun comes dangerously close to Jason’s lips. “Last chance, Jason. Don’t make Daddy angry.”

He swallows. It’s enough of a threat, and he’s in a poor enough position, that Jason knows he has no choice. With trembling fingers, he slides his jacket off his shoulders and onto the tiled floor of the shower. Next, he fumbles with the catches of his gloves, intentionally trying to draw the time it takes him to disrobe out. He gets his shirt off, then slowly starts to work on the fastenings of the body armour underneath it.

Inevitably, Roman’s patience soon runs out. “Get on with it,” he growls warningly, directing the spray of the water into Jason’s face to make him yelp. Not that he needed to; just the sound of his growl rakes Jason’s nerves to make him move faster.

He gets rid of the body armour and his undershirt, biting his lip as he fights the urge to fold his arms across his chest and shield himself from Roman’s leering gaze. His boots follow, then his socks are added to increasingly sodden pile of clothing beside him. Jason swallows hard as he undoes his gun holsters from his thighs, before setting them and his already open belt (containing every other hidden weapon he has) on top of the rest. It’s only after a final look up through the wet shield of hair across his face at Roman and the gun he’s holding that Jason manages to force himself to remove his pants.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Roman murmurs. “Now, c’mon, stop pussyfooting around and show Daddy the good stuff.”

Jason can’t see his eyes through that ugly gimp mask, but he can still feel the lascivious track of them down the length of his legs like a tangible thing, and his face burns with humiliation as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his underwear and slowly starts to draw them down.

Maybe, if he can just keep his head clear a little longer, if he can _distract_ Roman, then he can take advantage of the moment and get out of this before he loses himself.

Maybe.

Jason drops his boxers on top of the rest of the clothing, and body flushing hot and red despite the icy temperature of the water, refuses to look at Roman. A low mocking whistle cuts the air, and he grits his teeth at the sound of it. But then the temperature of the water ratchets up, and he finds himself sinking back into the tile and easing, his eyes shuttering closed for a brief moment. The moan of pleasure and relief builds behind his teeth, but he swallows it back down and forces his eyes open instead.

Roman’s taken a couple steps backward. Too far for him to reach now, and the gun is still pointed at him. “Promised you, didn’t I, baby? Now get up on your knees and scrub down. You behave, and I don’t get pissed off.”

There’s a bottle of body wash on a shelf above him, low enough that — if he gets up on his knees as Roman instructed — Jason will be able to reach it. He doesn’t want to, but the barrel of the gun is a strong incentive to do as he’s told. As quick as he can (to avoid exposing himself to Roman anymore than he has to) Jason reaches up and grabs the body wash, which has a mild, inoffensive odour when he uncaps the bottle. Probably specifically picked so it won’t cover the user’s natural scent.

He doesn’t know if Roman uses it himself for that reason, or if he specifically placed it here knowing he would be bringing Jason into the bathroom. Either way, Jason’s stomach turns uneasily as he squeezes a dollop out onto his palm and begins to briskly, efficiently, wash himself clean.

Roman snorts, unimpressed, “Christ, I’ve seen two dollar whores put on a better show than you.”

“Then why don’t you go out and get one of those and leave me the hell alone?!” Jason can’t stop himself from snapping, cheeks burning red at the comment.

It’s a mistake, and he only gets a brief warning in the form of Roman’s eyes narrowing before the loud thunder crack of a gun firing fills the air. Jason flinches back as a section of tile next to him explodes, showering him in small pieces of ceramic and plaster that are then just as quickly washed away by the water. His ears ring, and he’s instantly shaking from shock.

_The bastard shot at him!_

“That’s your only warning, princess. Don’t backchat me again.” Roman growls.

Jason wants to bite back, but the only sound he can make is a frightened whimper. Instinct has him curling in on himself in an attempt to present the smallest target possible in the face of the alpha’s ire. If he looks small and helpless then he won’t be a threat to him, not anymore.

The water shuts off, and Jason’s shaking worsens at the sound of approaching footsteps, at the disgusted snort Roman makes before fingers seize Jason by his hair, roughly forcing him up and out of his fetal position and onto his knees. “All bark, no bite; pathetic. I guess this’ll have to do. At least you don’t smell like shit anymore.” His other hand strokes down the side of Jason’s face and neck before curling round his throat. “Come on, time to get you dried off. Then we can get to the real fun.”

Jason can’t fight the pull as he’s dragged out of the shower and onto the bathroom floor. His knees slide across the tile before he manages to stand up, and as if from a distance he hears himself whine when Roman (briefly) lets go of him to retrieve a towel from the corner of the room.

“Shh, Daddy’s here.” comes the faux-comfort as thick cotton drags across his skin. Jason can practically hear the leer in Roman’s voice when he says, “Gonna take real good care of you, baby.”

Fuck, he can't— he can't—

A hand closes around the back of his neck, and his mind shuts down as he gives to the hold, eyes shuttering and his breath slowing. A thumb rubs up, skirting the edges of the scent gland behind his ear as Roman pulls his head down. His shoulders and back bend and he feels breath against his neck. Something deep in Jason makes him shudder, and it's just enough wariness to make him give a quiet, pleading whine. He doesn't want— Not teeth. Not there.

"Easy, baby," Roman breathes, practically in his ear. "You're a trouble-making cunt; I'm not gonna mate you. We're just going to have some fun; remind you what you're made for."

The hand on his neck squeezes hard enough to make him whine again before letting go and grabbing a fistful of his hair instead. He takes what feels like his first deep breath in minutes, dragging in air that smells like… like alpha, and arousal. It’s heavy in his nose, in his throat. The fingers in his hair pull and he follows, opening his eyes as he stumbles across the tile, trying to find his bearings against the guiding grip. He doesn’t do it in enough time to stop his shoulder from smacking into the door as Roman drags him through, the force twisting him sideways and craning his neck at an odd angle since the hand in his hair doesn’t give any. He lifts a hand to touch the ache, holding his shoulder and whining softly in protest.

Roman snorts. “You get all hot and suddenly you can’t take a little bruise? Fucking omegas.”

He’s shoved forward, and he hits the edge of something soft at the right angle to topple over it and roll. It takes him a moment, and a dazed pass of his gaze, to identify it as a bed. Then his gaze lifts to Roman, standing over him and shrugging out of his suit jacket, and he shudders without fully knowing why. He doesn’t… This isn’t a familiar space, nothing smells like him, nothing is _right_. He wants his own bed, things that smell right and safe and an alpha to— to— This doesn’t _feel_ right.

“Hush,” Roman orders, and Jason reins in the quiet whines he’s been breathing out. “Don’t worry, baby. Give it a bit and you’re not going to want anything but my cock. Gonna get all nice and wet for me, aren’t you?” Roman puts a knee on the bed, gloved fingers loosening his tie and then pulling it off. “Roll over on your stomach; you know how, don’t you?”

Jason hesitates, but a flash of teeth and a small snarl snaps him into movement. He feels slow, clumsy, but he gets onto his stomach, hands braced on the bed, head bent as far forward as he can manage in submission. The pillow smells like Roman, floods his senses and his eyelids flicker as he breathes it in. He startles a bit as hands grab his thighs, pulling them wide apart and then shoving them up, till he’s partially on his knees and everything between his legs is easily visible. He pulls against the grip a little bit, and one hand does let go and allow him to pull his leg further in. Until it _slaps_ the inside of his thigh, pulling a yelp from his throat and making him jerk his legs open again. He shivers, wanting to cringe inwards and hide the stinging skin but that very sting making him reluctant to.

Roman chuckles, letting go of his other thigh after a harsh squeeze. “That’s it, baby. You stay right there and let Daddy get a look at that tight little cunt of yours.”

Hands grab his ass, pulling his cheeks apart and forcing his hips to tilt even further, curving his back into a sharp arch and bringing all his parts on display. A thumb grazes over his asshole, then down further to the lips of his slit, hooking inside and tugging up, pushing his back an inch or two further into the unforgiving bend. It doesn’t quite hurt, but it’s a strain and he doesn’t like it much. He’s distracted from that by two fingers pushing into him from what must be Roman’s other hand, shoving into him with no regard for the fact that the thumb is already there. He jerks, fingers curling into the comforter beneath him as the fingers thrust, ignoring the clench of him around them and starting up a steady, harsh rhythm.

“I’m going to give you a couple minutes, baby.” Roman says, thumb tugging a bit more as the fingers of that hand spread out over his ass. “Just out of the kindness of my heart. Let you warm up a bit before I give you what you really want; fuck your sweet, tight pussy till I knot you full. That’s what you’re made for, baby. To take a knot.”

Jason shivers, the words sinking into the back of his head, making his breath shorten. He can imagine it; the swell of a knot, the haze. He bites into the pillow to keep from whimpering, shutting his eyes and breathing in sharp bursts through his nose. The fingers in him are moving easier, his body giving to the insistent pull of that thumb and the twist of the fingers. Making way like he was— was meant to. Instinct drives him to relax where he can, heat twisting in the pit of his stomach, spreading up his back.

The fingers pull out, and in the absence he can feel the wetness there, feel himself clenching down, sporadically, around nothing. He lets go of the pillow, twisting his head to the side as he hears the rustle of cloth, the sound of a belt sliding through loops. A hand — still gloved, slightly damp — grabs one of his wrists, and he makes a surprised sound as it twists his arm back, pressing it down across his spine.

“Shh. Just making sure you don’t squirm too much on me while I’m giving it to you, baby. Daddy doesn’t like that.” Roman’s words are followed by the sound of a zipper sliding down, more cloth rustling, and Jason swallows thickly around an excess of saliva as the musky smell in the air grows more intense, blocking out almost everything else.

Almost everything.

The next thing he feels is the blunt head of Roman’s cock pressing against his entrance. Then, without hesitation or preamble, it pushes in, spearing all the way into him in one smooth motion. He yelps, jerking against the hold on his wrist and wanting _away_ from the ache and the _too much_ of that weight inside him. He gets a couple inches as his toes dig into the bed for leverage, until Roman yanks at his arm and pulls him back, forcing them together and pulling a pained whine from his chest.

His, “Yeah,” sounds smug and pleased, and Jason shudders and tries to pull away again. “Oh, please. Red Hood can get punched in the face by an amazon without flinching, but fuck his cunt a little roughly and he’s all whimpers and complaints? Really haven’t done this much, have you, baby?” Roman’s hips snap, forcing into him again despite how he struggles, trying to clench down and get it _out_. “At least there’s one thing apart from your face that’s not a scarred up mess. That’s all that’s really important on a bitch like you anyway; pretty face and a tight pussy.”

“Stop,” he tries to choke out, but Jason doesn’t think the sound he makes in that moment actually resembles the word he wants. His head is too busy spinning with conflicting instinct for him to be anything approaching coherent. Torn between the need to submit and take what he’s being given, and the panicked knowledge that this is _wrong._ Not his den, not his alpha. Not what he wants. Not what he—

A sharp sensation at the back of his neck interrupts his panic. Teeth, Jason dimly thinks, those are teeth. Roman’s teeth, framing the ridge of his spine as they bite down. And with the realisation comes an irresistible urge to stop fighting, to give in and relax. Jason moans as his body rebels against him, as his muscles untense and his head drops down against the bed. Even his free hand — the one he has clamped against the comforter — goes slack.

All the while, Roman is still fucking him, still snapping his hips back and forth in an unhurried pace. But it’s different now, Jason feels it in a way that seems more distant (even though it continues to hurt).

“There we are,” Roman chuckles darkly in his ear when he eventually lets go, “That’s better isn’t it, baby? All nice and relaxed, now all you gotta do is—” he grunts, thrusting harder, “—lie still and take what Daddy gives you.”

Jason chokes a little, closing his eyes and managing to turn his head so his face is buried in the mattress. He hasn’t had a heat in so long, he’s almost forgotten what it feels like. The way his body feels outside his control, and the world boils down to the singular need to fuck and _breed_. And the more Roman fucks him, the worse it gets. Against his will, the pain ebbs and flows into something more like pleasure, and his whines become less protesting and more begging for… for…

_More._

Roman is still talking in his ear, awful filthy words, interlaced with ‘baby’ and ‘princess’, but Jason can barely understand him anymore. He moans, trying to press his hips back to meet the thrusts, and that earns him a vicious laugh and a hard slap against his ass from Roman’s free hand. “Impatient little bitch.” he hisses, and the next bite goes to the tip of Jason’s ear. “Don’t worry, Daddy’s almost there. You’re gonna be nice and full real soon.”

The next push of Roman inside him takes his breath away, faster and even harder than before. So deep it feels like it’s splitting him open, and the wet slap of flesh against flesh fills the air between muted growls. Jason’s shoulder hurts, aches from the pain of being twisted back for so long, but somehow that only adds to what’s building inside him. Against his stomach, his own cock is hard now, though he can’t get any friction against it, and Roman doesn’t seem interested in giving him any. No, he’s in this for himself and himself alone.

Jason pants as he starts to feel Roman’s cock start to catch inside him, stretching his body open even wider than before. He knows what’s coming. Wants it. Hates it. Emotion whirling inside him as his body bears down and he whimpers, passage convulsing wetly in a weak orgasm that hardly satisfies the burning ache that fills him.

Not enough. Not enough. He needs—

A sudden harsh growl startles Jason into tensing back up, jerking back against Roman’s grip as with one final violent thrust, he goes still, knot swelling until there’s no way he can pull back out. Jason sobs at the feeling, before compulsively biting at the comforter in an attempt to sate his desperate desire to sink his teeth into _something_. Not that it lasts long, as alongside that feeling of the knot and Roman coming inside him, comes an instant wave of hazy pleasure, draining his body of all energy and desire to move. He goes limp, would sink entirely down onto the bed if he could, and shivers at the feeling of the sweat running down and cooling against his skin while his heart beats rabbit quick inside his chest. The thud of it so loud it’s like a drumbeat in his ears.

It’s automatic to slow his breath and close his eyes, waiting for the beat of his heart to calm. He barely reacts when a hand takes his free wrist, pulling it back to join his captive one. Fingers wrap more securely around them, then leather, and that stirs him just a bit. Not enough for him to comprehend, not until it pulls tight and the hands let go, and his arms remain bound and trapped at the small of his back. He gives a soft whine, knowing that something about that isn't— isn't right, but it's muffled by the pillow and he can barely even hear it himself.

The rustle of cloth isn't familiar, and he turns his head to look even though the effort required is gargantuan.

Roman's stripping, pulling his clothes off one piece at a him, unhurried and calm. Tie, jacket, the shirt beneath it… then he leans back to unlace his shoes, and Jason gives a louder whine and tries to push back as the movement pulls the knot tight against him with a painful tug. Roman snorts, ignores him entirely apart from that. Jason has to press his shoulders and his forehead against the bed to give himself enough leverage to keep close, and the effort makes him tremble nearly immediately. There's a deep fear there, an instinctual need to make sure that they aren't ripped apart because the _pain_ of it…

Roman's hands come back to his hips, bare, and squeeze tight enough to ache before one slides up his spine and curls in his hair, pulling at it and arching his back tight. It presses Jason's hips back tight to Roman's, stopping one strain but only introducing it with another kind.

"You're not bad, baby." Roman sounds a little breathless, has that lazy drawl Jason's mainly heard in porn. "Tight cunt, holding Daddy so nice and warm. Not such an arrogant shit with a knot in you, are you? Just like all the rest of you; get you hot and fuck you full and you fall right into line. That's what you're made for, baby, getting fucked."

Jason shivers, whines in weak protest at the sting of the hand in his hair and the strained arch of his back. No. He's not— not—

"Your body knows it. Knows you belong under me, wet and snug and taking whatever I give you." The hand on Jason's hip moves, groping his ass briefly before sliding in, thumb rubbing at the very bottom of his slit where it's stretched tight, then up. He breathes out a whimper and Roman chuckles in response when that thumb slides over his asshole. The thumb pushes in, forcing his muscle open around it till the tip is inside, and he can feel it on every fluttering clench. "What? Never gotten fucked up the ass before? That too degrading for you?"

He manages another whine, soft and pleading, but not much else.

Roman lets go of his hair, letting him drop back down to the pillow. "Yeah, figures; uptight cunt like you. Sweet of you to save a first for me, baby. I think we'll get some better cuffs for you, something a little tougher, and then I can fuck this too. Just in case you get a little uppity.” He can feel the heat as Roman leans down over him, hips and a hand pushing to flatten him out against the bed, Roman hovering close enough his chest brushes Jason’s arms. “I don’t think you’re going to give me any trouble. I think you’re going to lie there and take it like the weak bitch you are, till I knot your ass and you start begging cause it’s not in your _cunt_ instead.”

Jason shudders, but words won’t come. He can’t… This is wrong. All of this is wrong. He knows it, can feel it. Even with the bone-deep satisfaction and the waves of hazy pleasure, there’s a leaden weight in his gut. This is _wrong_.

Teeth scrape over his shoulder, hand pulling away from his ass and grabbing his upper arm instead. “When I’m done with you,” Roman whispers, close to his ear, “how about I bring in some of my men? I’ve got better things to do than keep a greedy slut like you company through a whole heat, but I’m sure they won’t mind some sloppy seconds. They’ll fuck you anyway. That sound good to you, baby?”

 _No_.

“ _No_ ,” he manages to get out, breathless but desperate. “No, _no_ —”

Roman bites down. No one who cares hears his shout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This story contains someone swapping out medication to induce a surprise heat, rape of a first non-consenting and then unable-to-consent person, manipulation of instincts to force both submission/arousal, _lots_ of verbal humiliation and name-calling, some Daddy-kink, threats (non-sexual) with a gun, casual violence, restraints, threats of gang-rape and anal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's our apology chapter for the last part, folks. Enjoy XD

The call comes in as Roy is shoving a mouthful of freshly buttered toast into his mouth. Without bothering to wipe his hands, or indeed glance at the caller ID, he answers it. Pressing the phone to his ear and offering a food-muffled “‘llo?” to whoever’s there on other end. The number they’re calling on is known only to his close friends and family, so it’s doubtful they’ll be either surprised or offended by the poor manners he displays.

Only the expected sigh of disgust and resignation he’s expecting never comes. Roy frowns at the silence on the other end of the line, stopping his chewing for a moment as he listens more intently. No, it’s not completely silent; he can hear someone breathing. Hitched, heavy breaths. The kind he’d normally associate with someone trying to hold back tears, or a cry of pain.

“Hello?” he repeats again, now with far more caution and success.

“ _Roy_.”

The voice he recognises in an instant. It’s one that Roy hasn’t heard in months, not since the last painful argument they’d shared, and it strikes him instantly in the gut as he swallows down the still too large lump of toast in his mouth, wincing as it works its way down his throat. “Jason?” he eventually manages to croak back, fighting not to cough.

There’s no way to contain the incredulity in his voice. Ever since he and Jason broke up, Roy has been doing his level best not to think about him. Pouring himself into the newly reformed Titans and cautiously flirting with Donna in an attempt to move on. He’d assumed Jason was doing much the same, considering he was the one who’d driven the final knife into the heart of their relationship.

“ _Yeah_ ,” he hears Jason swallow thickly on the other end of the line, “ _It… it’s me_. _I._..”

“Why are you calling me?” Roy asks him. Harshly, but with just cause he thinks.

Only Jason doesn’t snap back at him. Instead he inhales sharply, a verbal flinch, before exhaling in a whimper.

The hairs on the back of Roy’s neck stand on end. Instinct, never much one for paying attention to actual events and reason, begs him to purr in response. Roy doesn’t go quite that far, but in the face of such a extreme reaction he does gentle his tone.

Jason would never respond like that if something wasn’t truly wrong.

“Hey,” he tries again, softer. “Why are you calling me, Jay—Jason?”

There’s a soft sound like a hiccup, and a pause long enough that Roy starts to worry that Jason won’t answer him at all. But then he does, and in a way that offers no clarification at all. _“I… I don’t know._ ”

“You wouldn’t have called me for no reason,” he points out, trying not to think how potentially loaded that statement is. “C’mon, tell me what’s going on.”

It takes another moment, and an audible swallow, before Jason replies, “ _I’ve fucked up, Roy. I’ve really… I’ve fucked up_.”

“You’re going to have to give me a little more information than that, Jay,” Roy says, deliberately coaxing now. He doesn’t know if he’s ever heard Jason sound so distressed before, not even when he would wake up from nightmares of his death, and it… it maybe scares him a little. Digs into all the pieces of him that still consider Jason his, even though he’s emphatically not. “What happened?”

Jason’s breathing stays disarmingly loud in his ear. Either he has the phone wedged up right against his mouth or he’s on the edge of hyperventilating.

“Jay,” Roy says, when he doesn’t reply again. “Jay, c’mon. You’re freaking me out a bit here. This is the first time I’ve heard from you in months and I need you to talk to me. Are you okay? Are you hurt? What’s going on?”

He lets a little command bleed into his voice. Just a little to try and break Jason out of whatever hesitation is holding him back. It turns out to be a mistake.

A whine breaks from Jason’s throat, right before he’s stammering, “ _I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry_.”

Okay, now Roy’s panicking. For Jason to just start apologising like that something has to be terribly wrong.

“Hey, hey, no,” he tries to course correct. “I’m not mad at you.” Well, he’s not now. “I just want to know what’s wrong. Tell me what’s going on, Jason. Please.”

But it’s too late. Jason chokes out one last, “ _I’m sorry,_ ” and then the dial tone is ringing in Roy’s ear. Instantly, he tries to call the number Jason rang on back, but to no result. He doesn’t answer, and there’s no option given for him to even leave a voicemail either.

“Shit!” Roy swears, dropping his phone onto the counter next to his now cold breakfast. He lifts his hand to his mouth and bites down on his fingers, trying to get a handle on his now boiling emotions. Just the sound of Jason’s voice had his instincts flying all over place, but now with this…

Fuck. What the hell even was that? Calling him out of the blue, sounding like he was in the middle of a panic attack. Roy stares at the opposing wall before standing up and shoving his stool back. He’s almost furious with himself for the reaction, but just sitting here and ignoring what happened is impossible. He won’t be able to calm back down until he finds out what’s happened to Jason. And if Jason won’t pick up his phone, that only leaves him with one other option.

He needs to go find him. In person. Only the problem is he’s not all too sure where it is Jason’s been hanging his hood these days, aside from being in Gotham. There are a few safehouse locations he still knows. He’ll have to try those first.

Leaving his plate and coffee mug where they are, Roy leaps into action.

 

* * *

 

He’s about halfway to Gotham when a brainwave hits him. Roy sends a message to Oracle, carefully worded, to see if she can tell him where Jason is now, and he’s on the outskirts of the city when she gets back to him.

It’s a set of coordinates, as well as an offer for backup if he wants it. Roy considers for a moment before replying with what’s essentially ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Only better phrased. Whatever’s going on with Jason, he wants the chance to approach it on his own first.

One dark windy road in Gotham is much like another. Roy follows his GPS to what seems to be one of the city’s endless abandoned districts, then to an old brownstone sitting at the very end of a long row of empty houses. He parks his bike against the curb, then climbs off to scout around the edge of it. The coordinates seem to want him to go down, but he’s not sure exactly where. Perhaps there’s a basement inside.

Wary of traps, Roy takes his time going through the house despite his intense impatience to see Jason. He finds a door leading downwards, but the basement itself looks dishearteningly normal. Filled with cobwebs, dust, a few pieces of broken wood and glass and not much else. Only experience tells Roy not to give up so easily.

Flashlight in hand, he inspects every inch of the walls, eventually coming upon a metal grill just big enough for an adult man to squeeze through. Bingo. He pulls it open and crawls inside.

After five feet, the vent opens up, dropping down into a more extensive space, and Roy breathes a little easier that so far there are no alarms screaming or guns pointed in his face.

“Jason?” he calls softly, as he follows the hallway down a flight of steps and towards what looks like a heavy steel door. There’s… a trace of a scent in the air. Jason’s he’s sure, but it smells distorted. Wrong somehow. Like when he’d forget to renew the alpha cologne he’d sometimes wear to disguise his own scent, and it’d grow old and stale.

No answer comes, though Roy is certain there must be cameras here. He reaches the door, tests the handle, and to his great surprise it swings open without complaint or having to be forced. But any thoughts he might have had about that are instantly blown away by the powerful wave of scent that flows out from the room within.

Fear. Pain. _Distress._ Roy rocks back with the force of it, before his mind blanks out and he’s rocketing forward into the room, pulled by instinct.

“Jason!” This time Roy shouts his name, turning his head violently in first one direction and then other, searching until finally he lays eyes on him. Sitting curled up in one corner of the room, Jason makes for an almost unfamiliar figure hunched over the way he is, with his arms wrapped around his legs and his face buried in his knees. He starts violently at the shout, and when Roy drops to his knees on the floor in front jerks his head up to stare at him with wide, frightened eyes and a broken whine on his lips.

 _Oh God_ , Roy thinks as he stares back at him, _What the hell happened?_

Jason stinks. There’s no better or more delicate way to put it. Not just of his own panicked omega scent, but alpha too. And Roy knows he was wrong now; it’s not the smell of alpha disguise gone stale. It’s multiple layers of alpha, aggressive and ugly, wrapped around him like a poisonous cloud. There’s bruises on Jason’s face. His lips are bitten and split. Worst of all, when Roy’s eyes track downwards, he can see red, angry marks rising over the collar of Jason’s jacket on his neck.

“Jay…” he whispers, all hesitation gone from him as he reaches forward. But Jason flinches back in the face of his hand, head knocking into the wall, and Roy curses himself as he clamps down on his own terror, trying to temper his voice to a gentle rumble instead of the furious growl he wants to unleash. “Hey, hey… shh, it’s just me, Jay. It’s Roy, okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

It’s like Jason doesn’t recognize him at first, looking at Roy wide-eyed as a doe in the headlights. Then he blinks, and in the smallest, cracked voice, he chokes out, “... Roy?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me, sweetheart. Hey.” He tries to smile, but doesn’t think it really comes through.

“What… what are you doing here?”

Roy’s heart rate ratchets up a notch. “I was worried about you,” he says. “You called me earlier, remember?”

Jason blinks at him. Then slowly, his eyes track down to the floor next to him. A brief glance in that direction shows Roy a cell phone sitting there, its screen black and cracked, making it difficult to tell if it’s broken or just depowered. “Oh,” Jason mutters. “Right. I… I did.”

“Yeah.” Roy nods encouragingly. He dares to shuffle a little closer on his knees. “You gave me a real scare, hanging up the way you did. I needed to come check that you were all right, and you…” He swallows, the reek of scent still coming off his former-partner backing his words up. “You don’t seem very all right.”

Jason’s shoulders draw further inwards, an attempt to draw himself into an even tighter ball. Roy has no idea what to do with that when he’s afraid to even reach out and touch him given how Jason reacted before. Touch is the natural way for an alpha to comfort an omega; it takes everything Roy has to hold himself back.

At least physically. Because when Jason doesn’t give him a reply the question he really wants to ask comes pouring out. “Jay, what happened? You gotta give me something here, sweetheart. Someone’s hurt you, I know, but I’m here now and I’m not going to let anything else happen to you. I _promise_. Just please talk to me.”

It still takes a moment. Jason trembles slightly, a cusp of a whine sitting on the edges of his teeth despite Roy’s deliberate attempt not to make his request sound like an order, before dying back down. When he speaks, it’s with the same broken words he first gave him over the phone. “I messed up.”

Roy isn’t sure he totally believes that, given Jason’s penchant for self blame in the past, but he doesn’t try to contradict him. “Messed up how?” he encourages him to keep talking, keeping his tone level and warm.

Jason’s next words are muffled slightly as he ducks his head back down, hiding his face against his knee. “Underestimated the target. Let them get the better of me. I-I shouldn’t have…” His voice cracks, splintering like wood against stone. “God, Roy, I’m so _sorry_.”

He shakes his head, and Roy can’t contain himself anymore.

He reaches over, making the movement as open and obvious as he can before running his fingers back through Jason’s hair. It’s tangled, stiffened by sweat and day old grease, but the touch seems to be enough to break something in him too, as he whimpers horribly, then pitches forward against Roy’s chest.

With his arms full of sobbing omega, Roy does the only thing he can do and holds Jason as tightly to him as he dares. As tightly as he used to do back in the days when Jason was still his and everything felt so much simpler. He nuzzles his face into his hair, kisses the top of his head and rubs his back, speaking soft comforting words and pulling a deep rumble (the alpha equivalent of a purr) out of his chest with every other breath.

Now that Jason’s so close, he can pick up greater details of the miasma of smell that hangs about him. The different threads of alpha, potent and ugly with mixed aggression and — worst of all — sex. He reeks of it. Semen and old slick that threaten to set Roy’s teeth clenching, threatening to turn his comforting rumble into a furious growl. He knows what happened. He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t even want to think the word, but he knows, and he’s never wanted to kill anyone more in his life than he does Jason’s unknown assailant.

Assailants, he corrects himself a second later, because he can’t dodge that reality. More than one. Oh God.

Roy tightens his arms just a little more around him. “I’m here, Jaybird. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere; I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He swallows, pouring every ounce of sincerity into the words that he possibly can. “I promise I’ve got you.”

 

* * *

 

It takes forty minutes for Jason to calm down. Forty minutes in which Roy rocks him, strokes his hair and near enough talks himself hoarse, until finally the sobs stop and turn to wheezing breaths instead. Jason no longer shakes but simply sits slumped against his chest, too exhausted to do anything else.

Roy allows himself another indulgent moment (for the both of them) just holding him, because while everyone thinks of omegas as the caregivers of the family unit, the truth is alphas can be just as fussy, particularly to a packmate in distress. Particularly to an omega they…

He bends his head and nuzzles Jason’s hair, swallowing thickly before allowing practicality to assert itself.

He needs to take care of him, fix him up as best he can. Any further questions he has can wait until after Roy’s gotten him cleaned up.

“Hey, Jaybird.” He speaks softly. “I’m gonna take you to the bathroom, okay? Get you washed up and into some fresh clothes.”

Jason doesn’t answer, but Roy takes the approach that anything that’s not outright refusal is probably a good sign. He drops a last kiss against Jason’s temple, and rubs his hand in soothing circles down his back before making an attempt to move. Something that’s easier said than done with how hard Jason’s clinging to him.

Through a mixture of gentle coaxing and careful guidance, Roy manages to extricate himself to the point that he can then try and encourage Jason to stand up as well. But as soon as he shifts and start to straighten his legs, a pained whimper leaves Jason’s throat, and Roy feels his heart twist in his chest yet again.

“Okay. Okay, I gotcha,” he murmurs, swiftly changing tactics.

Picking Jason up is not the easiest task. He’s a little taller than Roy, and about as heavy. But Roy’s strong, particularly in his arms and shoulders with how much power it takes to draw back the string of his bow, and he manages it with one arm curled around Jason’s shoulders and the other hooked under the bend of his knees. It lets Jason keep the contact he needs so desperately while at the same time reducing the amount of pain he must be in.

It takes Roy a little searching to find the bathroom. When he does, he’s relieved to find that it’s one area of the safehouse that Jason didn’t skimp spending money on. It’s big enough for the both of them to move around fairly comfortably, with easily-cleanable flooring and a shower and bath both.

“‘S’a nice place you got here, Jaybird. No idea how you built it with no one noticing, but hey, that’s why you’re the detective and not me.” He turns slightly sideways to get them through the door without risking banging either Jason’s head or heels on the frame. “I’m just going to set you down here a minute while I get the shower going. Know how fussy you can get about the temperature being right.”

But as soon as he says that, as soon as he actually goes to put Jason down, Roy feels a terrible shudder run through his body. Jason’s fingers pull tight at the fabric of his costume as he shakes his head. “ _No._ ”

Roy stops, unsure what it is he said wrong. Choosing his words carefully, he says, “You’ll feel better when you’re clean, Jay. I promise you will. And that’s all I’m going to do; help you get clean.”

“No,” Jason manages shakily, “I mean, not…” He swallows, so thickly Roy hears it. “Not a shower.”

It’s not a request Roy expects. Not a reason he can begin to fathom or understand, except that he doesn’t need to. Because Jason’s asking him for it, and right now he knows he’ll give Jason anything he can, so long as it’s in his power to do so. Answers can come later, right now all that matters is helping him.

“All right, no shower. Got it. I’ll run you a bath instead.”

It still takes some work and careful maneuvering to set Jason down in a way that minimizes the pain he’s in while still letting them keep contact as Roy gets the water going, but he manages it. Ten minutes later the bath is run. A quick dip of his fingers confirms the temperature is tolerable to Roy, and he takes a deep breath in before getting ready to face his next challenge of the night: getting Jason undressed.

“Bath’s ready, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Time to get in, okay? C’mon.”

Gently as he can, Roy pulls Jason to his feet again. He doesn’t fight as he takes his jacket off, or when Roy kneels down to unbuckle his boots, but he does start to shake again when he hooks his fingers under the hem of his shirt. Not fighting him, but clearly not okay with it either. “Hey, hey…” Roy says softly to soothe him. “It’s okay. Just getting you undressed, that’s all. Can’t have a bath with your clothes on now, can you, Jaybird? Shh, it’s okay. You know I won’t hurt you.”

He watches Jason lick his lips, then slowly nod. “I know,” he whispers hoarsely.

“That’s good, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you, you know? You’re so brave, and I’m so glad you called me.” Roy leans their heads together for a moment. “I won’t let anything else bad happen to you, not ever.”

Jason hiccups softly, like he’s on the edge of tears again, but the shaking lessens slightly, and this time he cooperates fully as Roy slowly guides him to take his clothes off, keeping the pace steady so as not to alarm him.

And maybe also to let him brace himself for what he knows he must be about to find.

The marks on Jason’s neck are nothing compared to those that mar his torso. Only the fact of their location makes them worse by default, but the rest… God, the rest. There are bruises everywhere, concentrated more on his hips, wrists and waist; more bite marks, and what Roy has a disheartening feeling is a cigarette burn on his left pectoral. It’s all he can do not to just hold Jason against his chest again and this time not let go. Especially when his gaze involuntarily tracks lower.

If there were any doubt left in Roy as to what happened to his ome— his friend, this would wipe away the last of it. Dried blood and come mark the inside of his thighs, and Roy knows with sudden, sharp clarity, that he’ll kill someone for this. Whoever it was, whoever _they_ were, he’ll kill them, no matter what it takes.

Responding to the sudden aggressive shift in his scent, Jason whines softly. Roy shakes his head to clear before responding, “Shh, it’s okay. You’re safe. Come on.” He forces himself to smile as he nudges Jason towards the tub. “In you get.”

He holds Jason’s arm to keep him steady as he climbs in, then kneels down at the side of the bath as soon as he’s settled. “There, much better, right?” Roy murmurs, reaching for the washcloth and soap. He works up a lather in his hands as he talks. “You just sit there and enjoy it while I get you cleaned up, Jaybird. Won’t take long, I promise.”

Even being as gentle as he can, though, he knows he still hurts Jason as he runs the washcloth over his bruised and battered body. It’s impossible not to. Even so, Jason doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t let out even one word of complaint as the water turns from clear to lightly pink, stained by all the filth Roy has scrubbed off of him.

If only he could do the same for the bite marks and memories, he thinks. He’d do anything to be able to take those away for Jason too.

Tossing the dirty washcloth into one corner of the room to be disposed of later, Roy moves to grab a towel from the ready stocked shelf he’d spied on the way in here. They’re exceptionally large and soft, obviously good quality, and he smiles a little at the memory of how much Jason always valued these small comforts above the larger ones, using them to remind himself of how far he’s come from where he started. No longer a poor kid with nothing, but a grown man able to take care of himself.

Jason values his independence more than anything, which makes it all the more worrying anytime he actually brings himself to ask for help.

“Up and at ‘em, Jaybird,” Roy says, shaking the towel out and holding it open invitingly.

Jason turns his head just enough to look at him out of the corner of his eye. His teeth tug at his bottom lip, then he nods, rising out of the bath on clumsy feet and stumbling back into Roy’s arms. Roy wraps the towel around him, as much a hug as an attempt to dry him off. He surreptitiously sniffs Jason’s hair at the same time, and is relieved to find that the alpha stink has been left behind with the dirty bath water. Now Jason just smells like soap, and slowly, as the water drips off him, himself. Much better.

He’d already found Jason’s bedroom in this safehouse during the search for the bathroom, so it’s easy for Roy to lift him back up in his arms and carry him there. Setting him down on the bed is another brief exercise in convincing Jason that it’s safe to let go and that he’s not going anywhere, but soon enough Roy is able to rifle through the clothes in his wardrobe and produce an oversized t-shirt and loose set of pajama pants.

He’s as gentle drying him off as he was washing him in the first place, and relieved to find that there’s no fresh blood on the towel when he pulls it away. Though something connects then, as he carefully helps Jason into the sleeping pants and his gaze skims over the bruises and bitemarks disappearing beneath the cloth.

Some of those are older — a couple days, maybe, with darker bruising fading into a yellowing shade — but some Roy would swear are fresh; five or six hours at most. That… has a couple disturbing implications that Roy isn’t sure he wants to dwell on right at the moment. But as he hands over the shirt, letting Jason shift to pull it on himself, his mind stubbornly proceeds on the train of thought he’s stumbled across.

Bats, and Jason especially, are dangerous, lethal people. Highly trained escape artists, with a lot of experience of getting out of pretty much any restraints known to man. Unless they’re somehow incapacitated. Jason doesn’t seem to be really injured, and Roy hasn’t noticed any puncture marks that might suggest drugging (he _hopes_ he’s missed something), and that… doesn’t leave many good options. In fact it leaves one obvious one that Roy really, really doesn’t want to believe.

“Feel any better?” he asks, making his mouth curve into a faint smile as he takes one of Jason’s hands, rubbing a soothing thumb over the back of it.

Jason stares down at their hands, but not with the same wide-eyed shock that he was wearing before. It’s more like exhaustion now, lining the edges of his expression and making him blink, slowly, down at their joined fingers. Roy waits with all the patience he’s built up on years and years of stakeouts. And more AA meetings than he cares to count.

“A little bit,” is what he’s eventually rewarded with. Jason’s voice is rough, but it too lacks the panic from earlier.

Roy smiles a bit wider. “Good.” He shifts closer, until he can line their shoulders and thighs together with light pressure. “I know this is going to be hard, but I need you to answer a couple questions for me if you can, alright, Jaybird?”

Jason shudders, head dipping a little bit. The fingers around his tighten till Roy’s hand aches. “Alright.”

“Okay. Have you taken anything? Painkillers or some sort of plan B, or anything?” Jason shakes his head, swallowing thick and heavy. Roy pulls a small rumble from his chest, instinctive comfort, before he takes a breath and continues. “Do you know if _they_ gave you anything?”

There's a sharp moment of hesitation, Jason's shoulders tensing and his scent souring with distress, before another shake of his head. "No, I— I don't think so."

"Alright, good. Good." Roy presses a little harder against Jason's side, reaching up with his free hand and very carefully, gently, tracing it through Jason's damp hair. "That's good, Jaybird. Do you think you're up to telling me what happened? Or do you want to get some rest first?"

"I—” The shudder that shakes Jason's shoulders jars them loose, and the tremble that takes the place of the stiffness is insistent, calling to Roy's instincts so hard that he has to bite at his own lip to stop himself from gathering Jason into his arms and just clinging tight. "He… _Fuck_ , I couldn’t think, I couldn’t— Couldn’t stop him. _Any_ of them.”

A whine scrapes out from between Jason’s teeth, and then Roy can’t help how he responds, pressing closer and pulling Jason’s head in under his chin with a gentle hand. His eyes squeeze shut, nose pressing into damp black hair as he tries to steady that trembling with his own touch.

“Hey,” he breathes, “hey, you’re safe, Jaybird. You’re safe now, okay? I’m not going to let anyone else near you. Not them, not _anyone_. I swear.”

Jason hiccups softly, fingers gripping into Roy’s shirt. “I know…” he manages after a minute. “I-I know, you’re safe.”

“That’s right.” He noses his hair. “I’m here, and you can trust me. You can always trust me.”

He feels Jason nod more than sees it. A couple more minutes pass before he starts to talk again, throaty and weak. “I was… I don’t know how he found out… but my suppressants, he… he must’ve replaced them. Fucking… I don’t know, _sugar pills._ ”

“Who, Jay?” Roy asks, fighting to push down the rage that wants to build inside him. Of all the dirty, low down tricks to do to an omega… whoever this bastard is, Roy’s never wanted to kill someone more badly in his entire life.

“Black Mask. Roman.”

Jason’s voice catches on the name, and Roy feels an answering chill of recognition. He knows that name. Those names. They belong to one of Gotham’s most prolific gangsters, a known sadist that Roy is pretty sure was responsible for the brutal torture and near death of another Robin some years ago.

What was Jason doing around such a man? And how the hell did he get close enough to do something like switch his suppressants?

“I was working him,” Jason continues slowly, as if reading his mind. “Undercover. Thought I had the upper hand but…” his voice cracks a little as he turns his face more firmly against Roy’s neck, “Guess not.”

“It’s not your fault, Jay,” he whispers back. “Not your fault.”

Leaning back slowly, he carefully guides Jason to lie down with him on the bed. There are so many thoughts spinning around in his head right now. So many different priorities trying to take hold. Later, he’ll need to make sure Jason takes some kind of contraception, maybe even persuade him to visit a doctor if he’s able to. God knows what those bastards who raped him could be carrying. There’s also the question of whether he should contact anyone else about what happened, but for now, one course above all others takes prevalence.

“You need to get some rest, okay?” Roy combs his fingers through Jason’s hair, doing his best to curl his body around him in a sheltering arc despite their height difference. “You’ll feel better after you get some sleep.”

He can still feel the tension in Jason’s shoulders as he says, “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” he replies encouragingly. “You can, because I’m going to be here the entire time. I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you ever again, Jaybird.”

A shudder runs through Jason. “Roy,” he says in a voice that’s thicker and rougher than before, “I’m sorry about… what happened with us, I…”

“Shh. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter, Jay. Nothing else matters right now except you getting some sleep.”

At any other time, that wouldn’t be true, but right now Roy really means it. He keeps stroking Jason’s hair, pulling another soft, comforting rumble from his throat to soothe him. Despite the last few months of separation, he still smells like home; like Kori’s island and the warehouse they’d later shared. Nothing feels more natural to Roy than to stay here and protect him.

Minutes pass, but eventually the tension seeps out of his shoulders. Jason’s breathing evens out, and he falls, at last, to sleep.

It takes a lot longer for Roy to follow him. A lot of time spent breathing slowly and steadily and carefully locking his anger deep down inside, where it can't sour his scent or make him do anything stupid. He has other priorities right now, and the last thing Jason needs is an alpha around him that’s out of control. Later, he can deal with his own emotions.

All that matters now is Jason.

 

* * *

 

They spend five solid days in the underground safehouse. Time during which Jason rests and recovers, and Roy does his best to take care of him, leaving only to move his bike to a more secure location and pick up some necessary supplies.

He calms Jason through nightmares and panic attacks, keeps clean his injuries, and makes sure he continues to eat even when stress threatens to take away all of his appetite. Though he tries to convince him to do otherwise at first, Jason refuses to allow Roy to make any contact with his family on his behalf. He doesn’t have the heart to go behind his back, either, no matter how much he knows they’d be worried about him if they knew. Not after the trust Jason displayed in calling him alone down here.

(And maybe there’s a part of him that’s a little selfish about that, too. To have Jason needing him so completely again.)

But the more details he learns about what was done to him, the more Roy worries. The more he knows Jason needs to be checked over by someone much more medically qualified than him. And finally, after some convincing, he’s able to get Jason to leave the safehouse to visit the free clinic near Crime Alley where he grew up. A concession Jason only makes because he already knows and trusts the doctor who runs it.

Leslie Thompkins is an older beta woman whose outwardly severe veneer cracks the moment she recognises who it is Roy is escorting into her clinic. Within a minute, she’s ushered them into the privacy of a back room, where in lieu of Jason being able to get the words out himself, Roy takes the lead and explains everything that’s happened to her.

The examination that follows is tense and uncomfortable for all, but by the time it’s done, Jason comes away with a clean bill of health, more or less. There are only some blood tests to wait on, but those will be a few days in coming back to them. Leslie cautions them not to worry too much about those as they get ready to leave.

Like Roy, she knows that the most prominent scars from such assaults are left not on the outside, but within.

A fact that becomes more apparent as they make their way to another of Jason’s safehouses. This time an apartment in one of the nicer districts of the city. Jason drops himself onto the couch as soon as they’re inside, pulling one of the cushions close and burying his face in it.

After making sure the door is locked securely, Roy follows him.

“Hey, Jaybird,” he murmurs, kneeling on the floor next to him and reaching to stroke his hair. “You okay?”

Jason shakes his head, which doesn’t surprise him. Having to put yourself in such a vulnerable position after going through such trauma… Roy feels queasy just thinking about it.

“Okay. That’s okay. You want a hot drink? I’m sure you must have some of that tea you like stashed here somewhere.”

It’ll help steady him, Roy’s sure of it. But again Jason shakes his head.

“No,” he mutters, “I don’t want any tea.”

“A hot bath, then? Maybe something to eat?” he smiles a little, “Or we could just go to bed, curl up for a couple hours.”

“No,” Jason repeats with frustration, suddenly pushing the pillow away from him. “I don’t…” One arm rises, fingers pushing back through his hair, gaze casting up towards the ceiling. His jaw clenches.

Roy watches, staying still for a moment before carefully shifting to reach out and place his hand on the couch, close but not touching. The words sit on the edge of his tongue, wanting to reassure, to offer anything that Jason wants if it’ll help, but he makes himself swallow it all back down. He’s said his piece before; Jason already knows everything he could say.

It takes a few seconds for Jason to loosen his jaw, then to take a deeper breath and lower his gaze to somewhere around the hand Roy’s left resting on the couch. He doesn’t take it, but he doesn’t shy away from it either and Roy thinks that’s pretty good. In fact, there’s something in Jason’s eyes that’s hardening, and for the first time it’s not pain or loss but a familiar _anger_.

Jason takes another breath, then meets his eyes. “I want Roman _dead_.”

Roy feels everything inside of him loosen, the lock on all his own anger and urges breaking with those words. “Done. You or me, Jaybird?”

Jason blinks down at him. “Just like that? You’re not going to… argue?”

Now, Roy feels secure enough to reach forward and take Jason’s hand, squeezing it with light pressure as he speaks. “Argue? Jason, he _hurt_ you. If it hadn’t been more important to make sure you were safe, I’d have done it already. I’m with you; hundred percent.”

The surprise is clear enough, and something like disbelief hovers there in the back of his gaze, but all Jason gives is a quiet, “Oh.”

It hurts him a little that Jason expected an argument, but not… personally. Not that Jason would expect _him_ to argue, because that’s not it. It’s that Jason would expect one at all, given what happened and what an unquestionably horrific bastard Black Mask has shown himself to be. Roy’s pretty sure he knows exactly who to blame for that insecurity.

“Can I promise you something?” he asks, and waits for Jason’s gaze to come back to his and for a short, jerky nod before he continues. “If we get there and you can’t do it, I will. For whatever reason; if it’s too hard, or painful, or you’re just out of bullets, I’m not going to judge. I’ll take the shot.”

Jason’s head dips just slightly, eyes shuttering for a moment as he exhales. “Alright… Alright.”

The ‘thank you’ isn’t said, but Roy hears it all the same. He gives a small smile, squeezing Jason’s hand with a bit more strength. “So, whenever you want to go, just let me know. We can gear up and head out whenever you’re ready.”

Another nod, smoother this time, and then Jason squeezes his hand back. “Now,” he says, and it sounds steady. “Let’s go now.”

Roy holds his gaze, and makes sure there’s no trace of judgment or concern in his tone when he asks, “You sure?”

The look in Jason’s eyes is comfortably close to steel. “I’m sure.”

“Alright, let’s go.”

* * *

 

Maybe it’s arrogance that makes it possible, or just an awful misogyny, but they have no trouble getting into Black Mask’s skyscraper of a base. Jason leads the way, clearly familiar with the layout of the place and exactly where all the guards are stationed (none of which has apparently changed). Few even get any chance to inhale, let alone send out a warning to the rest.

Jason gives him commands where necessary, and it works well. Jason takes the brunt of the work, downing leather-masked guards with an efficiency Roy’s always found himself admiring, and Roy does the work of clearing out everything else. Security cameras disabled at the start, locks broken, and the occasional secondary or third guard at a weird angle to the others. It gives him some intense nostalgia of when they worked together; this, they were always good at.

Neither of them make any mention of the lethality Jason is using. Roy thinks he agrees with it, privately. He doesn’t… He hasn’t asked about the ‘others’ that he knows were involved in what happened to Jason, but theoretically they would have been Black Mask’s men. God knows if Jason even knows who they were, or how many, and facing these men down, not knowing which of them were the ones that participated? Yeah, Roy might just be killing them too.

Knowing some of what was left on Jason… Roy’s not going to complain about offing anyone willing to work for Black Mask. Not right now.

They get to the top relatively easily, no alarms sounding. Then there’s a pair of double doors waiting, and for the first time Jason pauses. Roy can’t hear how steady his breathing is, behind the helmet, but he can see the slight bob of his Adam’s apple, just above the edge of his armor.

Roy draws up close, pressing their shoulders together for just a moment. “You remember my promise?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

This close, he can feel how Jason draws a deep breath in. There’s a pause, then Jason lifts his gun to a more at-ready angle and answers, “Yeah.”

A kick slams the doors open, reinforced steel making short work of the wood, and Jason moves in with long, stalking strides. Roy follows just behind, scanning the room with a sharp sweep of his gaze. It’s a dining room, far as he can see, with a long table looking out over Gotham through a massive wall-to-wall window. Much larger than necessary, several doors at the back…

And one piece of rapist scum sprinting towards those doors.

He’s lifting his gun, but Jason’s quicker to the draw. There are two shots in the breath it takes for Roy to lift and draw his bow; the first knocks the gun out of Black Mask’s grip, and the second impacts his upper chest with enough force to spin him off to the side and up against one of the walls with a grunt of impact. It’s a perfect shot, and Roy takes it.

His arrow sinks through Black Mask’s shoulder and into the wall with a satisfying _shunk_ of impact. It gets a satisfying shout too.

Roy circles closer, pulling a second arrow to the string but letting Jason take the lead. Black Mask’s reaching for the arrow with his other hand, and Roy decides to let him. The depth it’s in the wall? The only way he’s getting it out without help is to shove forward over the rest of it, and that’ll give them more than enough time to react.

Black Mask realizes that too, if the way he only gives the arrow a single pull before he stops says anything. His hand stays loose around the shaft of the arrow, but otherwise he leans his weight into the wall, chest rising and falling in visibly hard breaths. Roy’s real tempted to put an arrow in the other shoulder too, really _pin_ him, but he breathes the urge away. Not his place to make that call.

Jason’s come to a stop about a dozen feet away, gun lowered to hang at his side in a single hand. It’s Black Mask that breaks the silence of the room, barely a moment later.

“Well if it’s not the bitch,” he sneers, just a bit breathless. “You come back for seconds, baby? Didn’t get enough the first time around? If you wanted to play rough, all you had to do was ask.”

Roy’s hand tightens on the bow, his jaw clenched tight, but he refuses to give any other reaction. This is Jason’s scene; he deserves the right to do or say or listen to anything he wants.

It doesn’t mean that his heart doesn’t jump when Jason moves forward, coming to a stop just in front of Black Mask and reaching for him. There’s a snarl, but Jason tugs the mask off his head and ignores it, letting the leather fall to the ground between them. Roy knew, he’d looked up the pictures and the files, but it still turns his stomach just a bit to see the smooth, blackened skull of a head sneering up at Jason through startlingly white teeth. Or just baring teeth; it’s hard to tell with the lack of lips.

Two steps back, and Jason lifts his hand to pop the seal on his helmet, tugging that off too with a hiss of air. Roy bites his tongue not to say anything, or react to the hints of yellow bruising still touching the edges of one of Jason’s cheeks. It’s not the worst of what’s left, by far, but being able to see even that minor touch of color with the sadistic _bastard_ that did it standing right there is a new test of Roy’s restraint.

The helmet hangs loosely from Jason’s free hand, and his head lifts to look Black Mask in the eyes. There’s no domino mask this time, so they’re face to… Well, fucked-up skull-face.

The sneer sharpens to something like a grin. “Thanks for the view, baby. You know I left you your face on purpose; one of my men wanted to take a knife to it but I told him no. Told him you were only really good for a pretty face and tight _cunt_ , so we better leave you at least one of them. I might be reconsidering now, though, with you starting things off mean. Might let him do whatever the fuck he wants to you, no matter how _worthless_ it makes you to anyone else.”

Jason is still, and when Roy takes a glance his expression is blank, impassive. A little worryingly so, but Roy… He can’t interfere. Not unless Jason wants him to. He _won’t._

The grin stretches wider, as Black Mask gives a short laugh. “Don’t you worry, though, baby. No one else is going to want you, but I’ll fuck you anytime you want. Or get one of my men to, if you’re a little _needy_. I don’t mind sloppy seconds, babe, long as you know who really owns that slick cunt of yours.”

Roy’s bow creaks in his hand. Hearing those words, hearing Jason talked about in that way… it tugs at his instincts, makes him want to growl furiously and rip into the alpha before him. He has no idea how Jason can stand to listen to it and not act yet.

In the silence Black Mask’s gaze flicks between the two of them, and Roy can’t quite help the snarl that curls his lips, even if he keeps it silent. Black Mask grins back, then focuses on Jason.

“You want an audience, baby? He can join in if you want, if he wants some used piece of you. I don’t mind sharing, long as he doesn’t expect to get first go at you.” A quick look to him, as Black Mask laughs. “Might be a different experience, hero. Bet you were the one to fuck him before; I figured he was a little used already. Not much though; you only get a few nights or were you just a poor fuck?”

Roy breathes out, very carefully loosening his grip on his bow and addressing his words to Jason. “Red, I’m getting real close to shooting him myself, just so you know.”

One of Jason’s hands lifts in a simple, cautionary sign, and Roy makes himself take another deep breath of restraint as he looks away for a moment.

He looks back though when Black Mask sneers, “What’s the matter, baby? Cat got your tongue?”

“No,” Jason finally speaks. “Just getting your measure.”

The gun lifts, and Black Mask sneers at it as Jason pops the magazine out, checking what’s left before sliding it back in with a sharp click. “You haven’t got the balls, bitch.”

“Yeah, I do. Because the fact is, Roman? You’re a sadistic bastard, but that’s it. You’re not particularly smart, or powerful, you’re just ambitious and mean, and that’s not anything that scares me.” Jason lifts his head, and the gun. “You don’t even make my top five.”

The sound of the gunshot carries down the length of the room like cannonfire, bounced back and forth in a steadily growing echo that then seems to all at once fade away. Roy half expects more shots to follow, but there’s no need. Jason’s aim is perfect, and the bright spray of Black Mask’s blood, bone and brain matter against the wall unmistakeable for anything but a lethal wound. The body seems to teeter for a moment, as if frozen in place, before slumping forwards. Only it doesn’t fall to the floor. It can’t, not with Roy’s arrow still in its shoulder.

There’s no tremble in Jason’s hand as he slowly lowers the gun again. Something Roy admires deeply, considering everything that led up to this point. He lets him have a minute to simply absorb what he’s done before he opens his mouth to talk again.

“You okay, Jaybird?”

Jason swallows, the thick line of his throat bobbing under Roy’s gaze before he nods, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

Roy sidles a step closer to him, near enough that he can just barely brush their shoulders together. Jason doesn’t react at first, but after biting his lip he returns the contact, until he’s near enough leaning on Roy for support.

There’s no scent for him to detect. Not with the blockers Jason put on before they came out here, but Roy’s dead certain that if he could, that scent wouldn’t be anywhere near as calm as the expression Jason’s trying to maintain with him.

He chooses his words carefully, chewing around them for a long while before he eventually settles on a quiet, “You know you don’t have to be, right?”

Jason doesn’t answer, but slowly his head turns, lowering enough to tuck his face in against Roy’s neck, hidden from them both. He shudders, small and quickly restrained but violent.

Roy lifts his hand to carefully tuck the arrow on the string away, then brings it to Jason’s hair. “Let’s get out of here, Jaybird. Let’s go home.”


End file.
